


I'm in it for You

by raeldaza



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (don't worry it's not sad), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cancer, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, mentions of giraffes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:42:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4998208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre is Grantaire's new doctor, and he's more than a little distressed to see that Grantaire doesn't have someone to drive him home from the hospital. He gets his roommate, Enjolras, to drive him back, and it quickly turns into something a little more than just car rides.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if medical stuff is off - I did the research I could, but I don't have personal experience with cancer. Also, if anyone has experienced cancer, let me know if anything is offensive/ignorant, and I'll happily change it.
> 
> Inspired by the movie 50/50.

“So, you’re my new patient?” Combeferre asks, walking into the room, holding the his clipboard full of charts from the previous doctor. He gives the man waiting what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Hello, Grantaire. I’m Combeferre, and I’ll be your chemotherapy doctor for the duration of your treatment.”

“Does that mean the duration of my life?” Grantaire asks, smile wry and eyes hard.

“We’ll do our best to make sure it’s not,” Combeferre answers mildly, and looks down at the clipboard in his hand.

24, Male, stage 1 liver cancer.

He flips through the chart idly, having already glanced at them before, when he sees a small penciled sentence down at the bottom of the last sheet, right under the last doctor’s comments.

_Be gentle._

Combeferre glances up, and sees Grantaire looking around the room, hands gripping his legs to his chest, eyes flickering around the room and blinking too fast, feet tapping against the bed, the very picture of frightened.

“Well, Grantaire,” Combeferre says, slowly walking up to the hospital bed Grantaire's sitting on. “We’ll be starting the chemo today. I’ve been notified that you’ve been debriefed about what this will do to you physically. I just want to remind you that this is very hard on your body, so you’ll be unable to drive for several days, and more than likely unable to properly look after yourself as well.”

“Yup,” Grantaire says, eyes scanning the ceiling. His feet are still tapping.

“You are allowed to have people with you for this, as moral support.”

“I know,” Grantaire replies, and when he doesn’t follow that up with anything, Combeferre takes it as his cue to begin.

* * *

“Fuck,” Grantaire says, his hospital gown clad body shaking over a bedpan, every limb trembling with exertion.

“This isn’t an uncommon response to treatment,” Combeferre says lamely, knowing solidarity won’t help in the slightest. He bites his lip, not wanting to overstep boundaries, but unable to let this sick young man shudder with no comfort. He puts his hand on his shoulder, and tries not to care that it's bony.

“I didn’t think—” Grantaire wretches, body convulsing, and Combeferre has to take a steadying breath. His hand grips tighter on his shoulder, trying to give him some grounding. “I didn’t think it’d be quite this bad.”

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre says, because there’s nothing to say in this situation. He means it, which he doubts is any consolation.

“Fuck,” Grantaire says again.

“This is why we suggest someone to stay with you during the treatment,” Combeferre says. “It can help.”

Grantaire just shrugs.

“Do you have someone coming to pick you up?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says after a long moment. “Let me get changed.”

Combeferre helps him to his feet, steadying him as he gets his feet back under him. Grantaire sends him a short smile of gratitude, before heading into the room’s bathroom. He comes out a moment later clad in sweatpants and a tight t-shirt, and sends Combeferre a parting wave. He looks queasy and weak, which is normal. Combeferre gives him his most reassuring smile, and vows to look further into Grantaire’s past, and hopefully have some optimistic time tables for him for his next visit.

Combeferre’s still filling out his chart when he hears a honk outside the window, and he glances down to see the commotion.

It’s some mom in a mini-van getting her kid’s attention.

Combeferre is more distracted by Grantaire, who’s about twenty feet away, sliding into a taxi.

* * *

“I had a new patient today,” Combeferre says, stirring a pot of spaghetti.

“Oh?” Enjolras prompts, not looking up from his magazine.

“Yeah, a young man, early twenties. Starting a new round of chemo.”

“What are his chances?”

“Good, I think,” Combeferre answers. The steam from the boiling water is starting to fog up his glasses. “It’s going to be a rough go of it, though.”

“Isn’t it always with chemo?” Enjolras asks, glancing up. Combeferre shrugs.

Silence falls again, and Combeferre stares at the boiling water, not able to get the picture of Grantaire stepping into the taxi out of his mind.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Enjolras says, making Combeferre startle.

“Doing what?”

“Where you sigh heavily at your own thoughts.”

“Sorry for thinking too loud.” Combeferre rolls his eyes, and starts stirring the spaghetti. Enjolras huffs, loud.

“You want to talk about something: talk.”

“The patient today,” Combeferre says immediately. “He was alone.”

“No one came with him?” Enjolras asks, eyes widening slightly.

“No. And I looked, and his emergency contact lives in a different country. He was alone for the entire time, and at the end, he had to hail a taxi, because no one picked him up.”

“Jesus,” Enjolras breathes.

“It’s just difficult for me to imagine facing death alone like that. It’s been bothering me all day.”

“I can see why.”

“He was so young, and so scared, and so alone. And you know what makes it worse?” The timer beeps, and Combeferre moves the spaghetti off the stove. He turns to look at Enjolras. “I checked his insurance, and it’s the government’s for those out of work on sick leave. So not only is he sick, he’s not working, and probably doesn’t have money to be wasting on a cab.”

“The world is such a fucking cruel place.” Enjolras flips his magazine shut, and wanders over to the stove. “Keep me updated, okay?”

“Okay,” Combeferre agrees.

* * *

“How are you today, Grantaire?” Combeferre asks. Said man looks up from his shoes, which are a faded black. Combefere thinks he sees gum stuck to the bottom of the left. Grantaire lifts his eyebrows, a slight smirk on his face.

“Do you mean given the circumstances, or in general?”

“Either.”

“Doesn’t matter much, the answer is ‘shitty’ for both.” Grantaire takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. His smile goes brittle. “And I’m probably about to get shittier, aren’t I?” Combeferre gives him an apologetic smile.

“For now, yes. But in general, it’ll make your life a whole lot less shitty.”

“Counting on it, doc,” Grantaire says, flopping down on the hospital bed.

“No one with you today?” Combeferre asks casually, eyes on his clipboard.

“No.”

“Someone coming to pick you up?”

“Yes.”

“Someone that isn’t a cab?” Combeferre’s eyes are still down, but he can feel the tension in the room tighten.

“Is that your business?”

“Just sounds expensive,” Combeferre remarks, capping his pen, and finally looking up. Grantaire’s looking out the window.

“Well, you said I couldn’t drive myself. There’s isn’t any other option.”

Combeferre’s heart twists slightly, and he has to swallow before responding.

“How about we get you started?” 

* * *

 “Enjolras.”

“Yes?”

“You know how you were bitching earlier about not being able to help the world in a tangible way?” Enjolras looks up from his laptop, and blinks slightly at Combeferre.

“Yes?”

“Well,” Combeferre starts, and then stops. “I was just thinking.” His fingers start to rap on the couch cushion. “You know that liver cancer patient I have?”

“I’m assuming you mean the young man?”

“Grantaire, yes,” Combeferre nods. “I was thinking about how shitty it is he has to pay for a cab every week.”

“Uh huh,” Enjolras says, squinting.

“I was also thinking how you have every evening free, and have a perfectly workable car, more than capable of driving a young sick man home from the hospital, at only the cost of gas to you.”

“You want me to take him home?” Enjolras asks, obviously surprised.

“I haven’t said anything to him. It just bothers me,” Combeferre confesses. “He should have _someone_ help him through this ordeal, and he shouldn’t have to pay someone to take him home from the hospital. You were just talking about how you want to see a difference with the work you do, and this is helping someone who desperately needs it. It’s easy and it’s saving the world, one person at a time.”

“You don’t need to give me a long speech,” Enjolras says, mouth quirked. “I’m up for it, as long as he agrees.”

* * *

“No.”

“But why not?” Combeferre asks, sitting down next to him. “He’ll do it for free; it’ll save you cab fare, and give him something to do once a week.”

“I am not some stranger's charity case,” Grantaire snaps. “Like a ‘come help the unfortunate’ program at a church. I can take care of myself.”

“But you shouldn’t have to,” Combeferre says, perplexed.

“Yes, I should.”

Combeferre stares at him, but Grantaire’s face remains stubborn.

“No, you shouldn’t,” Combeferre says, and, admittedly, it’s not a great comeback. “Everyone could use a little help, even if they don’t need it.”

“I don’t need or want help from some fucking stranger.”

“Enjolras is my best friend and roommate; he’s no stranger. I promise you, he’s a good person. He just wants to help ease your burden.”

“So now I’m a burden,” Grantaire says, and Combeferre is doing this so poorly.

“Of course not. If anything, you’re helping him out, by getting him out of the house, and interacting with others.” Combeferre shakes his head a little. “He’s not exactly an extrovert, and getting him out can be a challenge. This would help. Plus, it’ll make him feel useful. If there’s anything Enjolras likes, it’s feeling useful.”

“He can go volunteer at a soup kitchen, then.”

“He does,” Combeferre says, and enjoys how Grantaire’s eyes go wide. “Every Saturday. Give him something to do with his Fridays. If anything, won’t it be nice to see the same face after every session? And he knows the basics of chemo – he’ll be more than willing to stop if you get sick.”

“I don’t understand why you’re pushing this,” Grantaire says, and he starts to huddle back in on himself, in the exact way that always makes Combeferre’s heart hurt a little. “I’m just a patient.”

“No one is just a patient. First, you’re a human. And second, you’re my friend.”

“A doctor-patient relationship is not a friendship.” Grantaire shakes his head. “If it is, then my friend group has probably tripled in the past year.”

“You seem like a decent person,” Combeferre says, ignoring him. “Let me be a decent person back.”

Grantaire runs a hand over his face.

“Can I at least donate money for gas?”

“That’s up to Enjolras,” Combeferre says, like he doesn’t already know exactly what Enjolras’ reply to that will be.

* * *

“He here?” Grantaire asks. He’s changed back into his normal wear, a ratty sweatshirt paired with torn jeans. His bushy, curly hair is hiding its thinning under a beanie, and Combeferre knows it’s only a matter of time until he comes in one day with it shorn. Grantaire has sweater paws, and he’s looking at his feet instead of out the window. He’s the picture of worn discomfort, and Combeferre has a fierce urge to throw an arm around him, and just hold him in one piece.

Not for the first time in this job, Combeferre wishes he were a genie.

“Yes,” Combeferre answers. In pure Enjolras fashion, he had been a half hour early, and had texted Combeferre that he was in the front lot, reading a book. “He’s in the rusted red Toyota.” He points out the window, and Grantaire squints, following his finger.

“And his name is Enjolras?”

“Yes.” Combeferre nods. “I don’t know where you live, and thought it may be invasive to check your file, so he doesn’t know where he’s going. He has GPS, though, so you can sleep on the ride home if you’d like.”

Grantaire nods, and toes on his shoes.

“Have a good week, Grantaire,” Combeferre says, reaching out to squeeze his arm lightly.

“Always,” Grantaire answers, in that same weak voice Combeferre is growing to despise.

* * *

Enjolras startles when someone knocks on his window, his knee coming up and hitting his coffee cup, spilling it slightly on his leg. Grimacing slightly, he looks up, and sees a sickly young man, smiling wanly at him through the window. Cursing to himself, he throws open the door, and almost hits him with it.

“Grantaire, I presume?”

“The one and only,” Grantaire answers. He looks tired, in a sick kind of way that makes Enjolras instantly understand why Combeferre had randomly blurted the other night that he wished he could make Grantaire tea.

“Get on in,” Enjolras says, gesturing to the passenger side.

“You’re not opening the door for sick little me?” Grantaire asks, batting his eyelashes slightly. Enjolras’ eyebrows rise.

“Did chemo take your hands?”

Grantaire stares at him for a moment, before barking out a peal of laughter. He shakes his head, and walks to the side door, opening it, and sliding in. Enjolras quickly follows, the car starting with only mild clunking.

“This thing sounds a little like a death trap.”

“It probably is,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire sends him a look before rolling his eyes.

“I hear you have GPS?”

“Yes.” Enjolras fumbles around in his door pocket, before handing the device over. “Go ahead and enter your address.”

“Just to warn you, man,” Grantaire says, hands not moving to turn it on. “I live about forty minutes away. I know Combeferre didn’t mention that to you when you agreed to this charade. If that’s too long, you can say so now. I have a cab on standby. It’s really not an issue.”

Enjolras flips his hand, dismissive.

“It’s fine.  Cancel the cab.”

“Are you sure, man?” Grantaire asks, biting his lip. “A cab really isn’t a big deal.”

“A cab must cost you a fortune if you’re forty minutes away. Cancel it.”

“Bossy,” Grantaire admonishes, but he shifts around in his pocket, and pulls out a cell phone. He quickly cancels the cab, and then inputs his address.

“It’s in,” he says.

“Okay.” Enjolras takes the GPS back and mounts it on the windshield, and then promptly pulls out of the lot, onto the main road.

It’s quiet for several minutes, only the soft sound of some punk CD Enjolras has in gently making background noise, and the occasional mechanical voice of the GPS telling them to head west.

“Not one for talking, are you?” Grantaire comments after few minutes.

“I can on the right subject,” Enjolras says, glancing over. “I just thought you might prefer quiet after all that.”

“Chatter away,” Grantaire says, leaning up against the window, his eyes falling shut. “It’s more lulling.”

_Take the first right on the roundabout ahead._

“How?” Enjolras questions, before shaking it off. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Well, I’m Combeferre’s roommate.”

“Best friend,” Grantaire corrects, his eyes still shut. Enjolras stares at for as long as is safe, and Grantaire must sense it, since he adds, “He said both, and I think best friend trumps roommate in the relationship meter.”

“There’s a meter, is there?” Enjolras shakes his head slightly. “Well, yes, he’s that too. And he’s your doctor.”

“And friend, according to him.” Grantaire snorts. “How is he like that with all his patients? Doesn’t it get tiring, getting emotionally involved with dozens of dying people?”

_Turn left at Wall St._

“He isn’t like that with all his patients,” Enjolras says, fingers tapping on the wheel. “He’ll occasionally mention someone to me, but you’re the first he’s seemed to take this personally.”

Grantaire’s quiet a moment, looking troubled.

“Why me?” He asks, voice soft. “Just. Why me?”

“I’m not sure,” Enjolras answers honestly. “I know he doesn’t like to see anyone alone. He was for all of his childhood, and that, more than anything else, bothers him.”

“So it’s pity.” Grantaire nods, like he understands. Enjolras frowns at him.

“More like empathy.”

“And you?” Grantaire asks. “Why are you here? If you say empathy, you’re a fucking liar.”

“Well,” Enjolras says, and lets out a breath. “Me? I’m here for you.”

“You don’t know me; that’s not why you’re here.”

“I don’t need to know you.” Enjolras shakes his head. “You’re a person, and that’s enough of a reason.”

_Turn right at the next light._

“Being a person isn’t a reason,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras wonders how someone can be so stubborn and confrontational after going through so much treatment less than an half hour before. “A reason is pity. Or writing it off on your heavenly path tax report. Or some misguided way to make yourself feel good. Or just a favor you owe Combeferre. It’s not for me; it’s for you, somehow. I’m just trying to figure out how.”

“I can’t just want to help another person out?”

“No,” Grantaire says slowly, incredulous. “Not a stranger. People don’t do things for strangers for no reason. If they do something nice, it’s to make themselves feel better, not purely altruistically. There’s always some reward, some benefit.”

“Maybe my reward is seeing you happy,” Enjolras says, because he’s not even sure what to say at this point. In truth, he’s doing it because he thought Grantaire would appreciate it; it’s not selfish, not in any conscious way, but he doesn’t know how to counter Grantaire’s arguments.

Grantaire stares at him a moment, before looking back out the window.

“Then you’re not going to get your reward.”

_Turn left at the intersection of Callway and Church._

* * *

 “Hello,” Enjolras greets. Grantaire grunts in return. “How was it?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question,” Grantaire replies, placing his head on the window, and Enjolras can’t really deny is a fair response.

_Go west on Jondret Road._

“I cannot fucking stand when they say that,” Grantaire says. Enjolras glances over, and Grantaire is staring at his GPS with murder in his eyes.

“Say what?” Enjolras asks, throwing his blinker on.

“West. Or any cardinal direction. It’s completely unhelpful. How in the hell am I supposed to know which way is south?”

“The sun sets in the west, and rises in the east,” Enjolras says, turning the car. "If you look to the sun, depending on the time of the day, you can usually gain a vague sense of which way is what.”

He can feel the heavy glare Grantaire is boring into the side of his head, but waits until he’s up to speed to glance over. “What?”

“You’re one of those.” Grantaire shakes his head.

“One of what?”

“The boy scout types where you know fucking everything about everything.”

“Definitely not.” Enjolras shakes his head. “If this car had a flat, I wouldn’t even be able to take the wheel off, let alone the jugnuts.”

“Do you mean lugnuts?” Grantaire asks, mouth twitching.

“See?” Enjolras says, and Grantaire laughs, his first one in Enjolras’ presence.

“It’s not that comforting, you know, telling me that if this car broke down you couldn’t fix it.”

“Could you?” Enjolras taps his fingers along to the radio.

“No.”

“Then no judgment.”

“Can I judge you on the fact that you seem to be enjoying ABBA?”

“You don’t like “Honey Honey”?” Enjolras asks, glancing over. “Who doesn’t like “Honey Honey?”

“People with ears?” Grantaire says, leaning his seat back all the way, closing his eyes.

"People with ears know this is a classic."

"That sentence actually hurt me to hear," Grantaire says, making Enjolras huff.

“I can’t believe you don’t like ‘Honey Honey,’” Enjolras mumbles after a quiet moment.

_Take the first right on the roundabout ahead._

Grantaire’s eyes are still shut, but he starts to hum along to the last chorus, and Enjolras joins, if a little triumphantly.

“When I first saw you,” Grantaire says after the song has ended and Enjolras is grinning widely to himself. His eyes are still shut. “I actually thought you seemed like you were much cooler than me.”

“I still could be,” Enjolras says.

“You enjoy listening to ABBA,” he says, like that’s answer enough. And maybe it is.

* * *

“Hey, Grantaire,” Enjolras says.

“Hi,” Grantaire mumbles back, shuffling in. Immediately, Enjolras can tell it’s been a rough session.

“Before we go, I just wanted to make sure you knew that I can stop at any time. If you need to go to the store, or—”

“Got it,” Grantaire interrupts. “Drive.”

Enjolras nods, and pulls out, turning left onto the street.

“So what do you do for a living?” Grantaire asks. He looks sickly, deathly pale, but Combeferre warned him against asking any medical questions, because apparently Grantaire has shown a strong aversion to talking about it.

“I write political commentary for a national magazine. It’s Internet based, which gives me a lot of leeway with my hours. There are Skype meetings every morning at nine AM, though, which keeps me on a basic schedule.”

“What’s your opinion on gun control?”

“Specifically here or worldwide?”

“In Greece,” Grantaire says, just to be a shit, and Enjolras knows it.

“I don’t think Greece’s main problem right now is guns,” Enjolras says, moving to the right line to ready for the roundabout.

“Fair answer,” Grantaire mumbles, putting his head on the window.

“And you?” Enjolras glances over. “What do you do?”

“What do you care?”

“It’s polite to ask.” Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Plus, it’s a fairly standard thing to know about someone you see for an hour every week.”

“Fair answer,” Grantaire says again, and sits up a little straighter. “Before this whole thing, I worked in construction.”

“How did you get into that?”

“It didn’t need math,” Grantaire says honestly. “And I was good at it. Sucks, though. It’s going to take me forever to get back in shape for it after all this.”

“I’m sure you will.”

“You are, huh?” His tone is dark enough that Enjolras knows he made a mistake there.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“Death, laziness, destruction of my body due to chemicals. Take your pick. What makes you so sure you know my future?”

“I don’t.” He wishes he did, just as Combeferre often prayed he could on some of his darker nights.

“Then don’t pretend you do,” Grantaire snaps, and it’s the last thing he says the entire ride.

* * *

“Existentialism? _Really?_ ”

“Camus was a genius.” Grantaire smirks, and Enjolras finds himself shaking his head.

“That’s such a 21st century, hipster, main-stream life philosophy, Jesus.”

“How can something be main-stream and hipster?”

“Whatever,” Enjolras says, waving one hand. “You know what I mean. I know it’s popular to think that all of human existence is meaningless, but what a boring life attitude.”

“It is true though,” Grantaire says, shifting in his seat. “You can’t deny that.”

“Even if it is, it’s stupid. Looking at life outside of the human realm is stupid, since we live within the human realm and time. You have to take the meaning of your life in consideration with the rest of humanity, and the fact of how it matters within our own reality.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire says, and he sounds amused. “And how exactly does it matter with humanity’s reality?”

“Everyone matters in humanity. Every single person effects every how life turns out. I am changing you, you’re changing me, that cashier at the gas station changed me. Every person impacts the world, so every person is important.”

“That’s frightfully optimistic.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Maybe. But—” Grantaire stops, and then gulps loudly. “Could you pull over?”

Enjolras glances over, and Grantaire’s holding his stomach, looking rather green. Hastily, he pulls into a McDonald’s parking lot. Grantaire stumbles out of the car, and proceeds to fall to his knees, and retch. He manages to make it onto the grass instead of the pavement. Enjolras fumbles to unbuckle his seat belt, and hurries over to where Grantaire is kneeling on the ground. He isn’t sure if he has permission to hold Grantaire, so he simply puts a hand on his back, gently rubbing it.

“Are you all right?”

“Fucking hate that question,” Grantaire says, raspy.

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras bites his lip. “I’m going to go in, and get you some napkins.”

Grantaire nods, still folded over by the car.

Enjolras comes back, three minutes on the dot, with napkins and an ice cream sundae.

“Hungry?” Grantaire asks. He’s now sitting on the ground, knees to his chest. He looks very young.

“This is for you,” Enjolras says, handing it over.

“Why?” Grantaire asks dumbly, looking up at Enjolras with large eyes.

“To get the taste out of your mouth, of course.”

“Let me pay you.” With one hand, Grantaire extracts his wallet from his coat wallet, and manages to pull out a dollar.

“Thanks,” Enjolras says simply, putting it into his pocket. Grantaire eyes him for a second, thinking he might hand it back, before he nods.

“Can you help me stand?” he asks. Enjolras leans down, grabs his arm, and gently lifts him.

They move back into the car. After several moments, Enjolras asks, “What’s your favorite Camus book, then?” and they continue, willfully forgetful. 

* * *

“Shit,” Enjolras swears to himself, looking under the bed. He’s late to pick up Grantaire, he knows he is, but he can’t find his other shoe. It’s been twenty minutes, and it’s to the point that if he doesn’t leave now, Grantaire will have to wait on him, which he absolutely doesn’t want. He would call, but Combeferre makes it a point to try to have his phone on silent, and he, stupidly, doesn’t have Grantaire’s number.

He toes on Combeferre’s second pair of shoes, a massive 13 to his 9. He stumbles all the way to his car, and eventually has to pull over to take them off for driving. By the time he pulls into the hospital, he’s eleven minutes late.

Grantaire’s sitting on the bench in front of the hospital, huddled up in a big, black wool winter coat. Cursing himself, he throws it into park, and steps out. He’s in his socks, and feels ridiculous.

“Grantaire!” he calls, and watches as Grantaire’s head shoots up in recognition. He slowly ambles over to the car.

“Get lost?” he smirks, opening up the car door.

“Lost my shoe.”

“Do you not have more than one pair of shoes?” Grantaire asks, which is a fair question.

“No. But, now that you mention it, I’m going to get on that.”

“What did you do?” Grantaire asks, turning to put on his seatbelt.

“Stole Combeferre’s.” Enjolras gestures to the back, where the shoes are on the seat. Grantaire glances back.

“Those are massive.”

“The man has big feet.”

“Does he?” Grantaire snorts. “Hold on, I've got to make a call.”

“Okay.” Enjolras turns the ignition, and shifts the car into drive.

“Hi, I just made a call to you around seven minutes ago, asking for a cab under the name Grantaire?” Enjolras brakes, and turns to stare at Grantaire. “Could you cancel that, please? Great, thank you.”

“You called a cab?” Enjolras asks as Grantaire ends the phone call.

“Yeah.” Grantaire shrugs. “Figured you forgot.”

Enjolras stares at him a second, before taking his cell phone out of his pocket, and throwing it at Grantaire. It hits him in the chest, but he manages to catch it on its descent down.

“Program yourself in. In case I’m late again.”

Grantaire stares a moment, but does as asked. When he puts the phone in the cupholder, Enjolras speaks again.

“I will never forget you, okay? Do you understand that? Never.”

Grantaire stares at him for a moment, and then turns to look out the window.

* * *

“Could you come up to my room for a sec?” Grantaire asks the next week. He’s fiddling with his coat zipper.

“Yeah, of course,” Enjolras says, moving the car into a legitimate parking space, instead of idling at the door. “What’s up?

“You’re always driving me home, and never let me pay you. So I did something else for you.”

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“I wanted to,” Grantaire shrugs. “Please come up?”

Enjolras can’t say no to that, nor can he ignore the way his chest is squirming slightly. He follows Grantaire up the steps, and into a small, rather dark apartment. They walk into the kitchen, and Enjolras abruptly stops at seeing the table.

“Grantaire,” he breathes. There’s an entire dinner full of food set out, looking hot, homemade, and delicious. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know. My friend, Bahorel, is a caterer. I asked him for a favor. He made it all and set it all up.”

“It looks great.”

“It will be.” Grantaire grins. “The man can cook. So, will you eat with me?” He actually looks nervous, so Enjolras doesn’t hesitate.

“Of course.”

* * *

“I bought Mario Kart,” Grantaire says. “I missed driving.”

“And obviously Mario Kart is the easiest way to create that sense of verisimilitude.”

“Obviously.” Grantaire smiles, and then hits him on the arm. “Want to play?”

“I suck,” Enjolras says, but he’s already unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Well, obviously.” Grantaire ducks out of the way of Enjolras’s swat, laughing.

* * *

It’s late, almost one in the morning, and Enjolras is still awake, trying to finish an article that seems sentient in its want not to be written. His mind is overwrought and tired, trailing back unwillingly to Grantaire’s laugh instead of concentrating on the last U.N. assembly. Only his lamp is on, casting yellowish, autumn glow to the room. He’s sleepy and out of it, which is why he startles so badly when his phone rings that he almost knees his laptop off his bed.

He grabs his phone, and quickly swipes the green button at seeing Grantaire’s name.

“Grantaire?” he answers. “Are you okay? It’s late.”

“Sorry for calling so late,” Grantaire says, his voice is thin and taut.

“Don’t apologize,” Enjolras says swiftly. He feels an alarming need to do something with his hands, so he wraps them around himself, hugging his stomach. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know, just a break down. Might have shattered my larynx.”

“Oh God.” Enjolras swallows down a growing lump in his throat. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know what to say,” Grantaire says, and his voice breaks three times in the one sentence. “I’m fucking angry, but I’m also just so fucking tired of being sick. At this point, I don’t know if it’s even about death anymore. I just want to stop feeling like shit all the time.”

Enjolras cannot think of a single thing to say. Tears are starting to well, and all the books on how to help friends with cancer are completely gone from his mind. He can’t think of a word that would help.

“I’m glad you called me,” he ends up saying, and while it’s the truth, it feels wholly inadequate.

“No you aren’t.” Grantaire snorts, still watery. “Why would you be? I’m just crying into your ear.”

“I’m really glad you called me,” Enjolras repeats, voice firm.

“Okay.” He sounds so small, and it’s physically painful to hear.

“Can I see you?” Enjolras blurts, without a single forethought.

“Now?” Grantaire asks. “I’m a mess now.”

“That’s why I want to see you.”

“It’s late, Enjolras, and I know you aren’t a night person.”

It’s true; Enjolras has an internal clock that wakes him up at 6AM everyday, and it’ll happen even if he doesn’t get to bed until 4AM. He’s always grouchy and pissy when sleep deprived, and usually will go to great lengths to avoid it. But Grantaire is far, far more important than sleep, and he’d willingly stay up the entire night holding him if it would stop his tears.

“I’ll come to you,” Enjolras says, hopping off his bed. “I assume you don’t want to go out to a diner?”

“I’m a bit of a mess right now.”

“Okay, I’ll bring you coffee, then.”

“You don’t have to do this, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and it’s how tired his voice is that wholly convinces Enjolras.

“I want to,” he says, and hangs up.

 

“Coffee.” The moment Grantaire’s door open, Enjolras shoves the hot foam cup at him. “It’s from a gas station, but I taste tested it, and it’s only 24% turpentine.”

“If that’s all.” Grantaire smiles, taking a sip. He doesn’t look so great – he still has bloodshot eyes, red cheeks, and disheveled hair.

“Come on, Grantaire,” Enjolras says after a moment, tugging on his sleeve. He pulls him over to the couch, and Grantaire lets himself be drug, falling onto the couch in a careful humph, leaning up against the armrest.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, staring at the coffee cup. His fingers are tapping around it, quick and rhythmic.

“Of course,” Enjolras shrugs, folding his legs under him. “I wasn’t doing anything important.”

“Editing Wikipedia articles?” Grantaire guesses, and Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“I wish. Nothing so exciting.”

“Still sorry to drag you away.”

“Don’t be.” Enjolras shakes his head. “Don’t be. Everyone needs someone to call.”

Grantaire nods, but doesn’t seem inclined to speak. Enjolras lets it pass for at least thirty seconds before he starts again.

“Are you all right?” he asks seriously. “Be honest.”

“It comes in waves,” Grantaire says after a moment. “About an hour ago, I really wasn’t. I just got so fucking angry about the whole thing – how unfair it was, dying in my early twenties. Like, I’ve never even been to a football game, you know? Or been off the continent. It just hit me how unfair it all was.” It had been hitting Enjolras for about a month and a half, but he wasn’t going to interrupt. “You know what set it all off?”

“What?”

“I got an email from the city zoo,” Grantaire says. He leans back on the couch, and stares at the ceiling. “I used to be a member, because I loved the animals. They’re having a special day in three months, where you can come and pet the giraffes. And I saw it, and immediately wanted to go. I’ve never pet a fucking giraffe before, and it seems like a cool experience. I started filling out the sign up form, and got half way through it before realizing that, wait, I might be dead by then. Or so sickly I can’t move. And then I started crying, and then I started screaming, and then I started throwing things.”

“I think that’s a reasonable response to not getting to pet a giraffe,” Enjolras tries to joke, and it at least receives a chuckle out of Grantaire.

“I’m not angry anymore. Just tired. It comes and goes. I’m just sick of it, honestly. All of it.”

“That’s perfectly reasonable, R,” Enjolras says, voice earnest. He itches to close the space between them, grab him in a hug, but he keeps his hands wound together on his lap. “There’s no judgment for wanting to feel better.”

“I feel like.” Grantaire swallows loudly, and Enjolras instinctively knows this is something hard to admit, and he leans forward. When Grantaire starts again, his voice is noticeably softer. “I feel like I don’t have the right to be angry at having the disease, when I gave it to myself through excess drinking.”

“That’s such bullshit,” Enjolras spits out, and despite his best efforts, he can feel a lump rising in his throat.

“I know,” Grantaire says, putting his head in his hands. “I have therapy sessions, so I know. But still.” He's quiet a moment. "Back when I was first diagnosed, I thought that I might feel some sort of relief at dying. That when it came down to it, maybe cancer was a gift, taking me from the world early."

This time, Enjolras doesn’t stop himself; he reaches forward, grabs Grantaire’s shoulder, and yanks him into a hug. It’s slightly awkward given their positioning, but Enjolras holds on tight, chin hooked around his shoulder, and after a moment, Grantaire carefully winds his arms around Enjolras’ back, and holds him back just as tight.

Enjolras isn’t sure how long the hug goes on for, but it’s enough that his shoulders have felt stiff for several minutes. He tries to subtly shift them, but it just succeeds in making Grantaire pull back, which isn’t at all what he wanted.

“Thanks,” Grantaire says completely unnecessarily, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Can we stop being maudlin now?”

“Sure,” Enjolras agrees, and offers him a smile. “What would you like to do?”

“Do you need to get home?” Grantaire asks, staring at his hands. “I know it’s late.”

“No, I’m good,” Enjolras lies easily. “Do you want to play a board game or something?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, letting out a small, surprised laugh. “You know what, I kind of really do.”

"What do you have?"

“How do you feel about Monopoly: Horses edition?”

That’ll easily be several more hours, probably taking them into early morning. Looking up in Grantaire’s face, it’s the easiest yes he’s given in a while.

 

“Oh my God, fuck you, no way you can build a stable on Thoroughbred!” Grantaire exclaims, snatching forward to try to grab the plastic piece out of Enjolras hands. He leans away, clutching it to his chest.

“Hear it and weep, Grantaire, I have the cash.”

“You’re going to bankrupt me,” Grantaire groans.

“That’s the point of the game, monsieur.” Enjolras smirks. Grantaire eyes him for a moment, before lunging again. Enjolras falls over backwards to avoid him, and Grantaire lands full body on the board, throwing the game pieces all over the ground.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras laughs from his position on the floor. “You did that on purpose because you’re losing.”

“Did not,” Grantaire says, before dissolving into a fit of laughter. His laughter sets off Enjolras, and suddenly their both gasping for breath, shaking on the ground in laughter at 4 in the morning, with monopoly pieces flown around them.

“This isn’t actually funny,” Grantaire manages to get out.

“I know. It’s just that time of night.” Enjolras sits up, and Grantaire’s sprawled out body makes him chuckle again. “Do you know what I feel like doing?”

“What’s that?” Grantaire asks, rolling over, and then pushing himself up on his knees.

“I want to make a food sculpture. The ancient pyramids.”

“How are you not tired yet?” Grantaire asks, standing.

“Second wind?” Enjolras guesses. “Are you saying you don’t want to make a pyramid out of cornflakes and pudding?”

“That is the literal opposite of what I’m saying, darling.” Grantaire smiles, and holds his hand out to Enjolras, which he takes freely. Grantaire pulls him into the kitchen.

 

It turns out to be a pyramid made out of left over lasagna, mini wheats, and graham crackers. It mostly stands up by itself, and Enjolras is oddly proud of it.

“Hold on, I want to snapchat this to ‘Ferre.” He fumbles with his phone, and Grantaire watches as he carefully chooses the angle for the picture.

“Does Doc know where you are?” Grantaire asks.

“No, but he’s at work right now, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Won’t he question getting a snapchat from you in at this time of night in what is obviously a stranger’s kitchen?”

“Probably.” Enjolras puts his phone in his back pocket. “But then I’ll just tell him I was with you.”

“You will?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras can’t parse his tone. Enjolras nods, and watches Grantaire’s face clear. He gives him a little smile, before yawning.

“We should go to bed.”

“Yes,” Enjolras assents. “We should.”

“You can take the couch or my bed, your choice.”

“I actually should go home,” Enjolras sighs heavily. “I have to send an article to my boss tomorrow by 9AM, and it’s on my laptop at home.”

“Are you sure?” Grantaire asks. “You’re more than welcome to stay. I kept you long enough.”

“I stayed long enough,” Enjolras corrects. “But I should go. Thank you for letting me stay. I had a lot of fun.”

“Thanks for coming. I’m sorry I cried on you.”

Enjolras waves a hand, dismissive, and yawns.

“Don’t think about it. I cried on you, too.”

“You did?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras just snorts softly, and after only a moment of hesitation, takes a step forward, and hugs him. He keeps it as gentle as he knows how, lacing his arms around Grantaire’s neck, and placing his head on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“I’ll see you soon,” Enjolras says, pulling away. He gives him one last soft smile, and heads out the door.

He’s hit immediately with the cold night air, chilling him to his core, a stark contrast to the cozy warmth of Grantaire’s. He makes his way to his car, and as he begins his drive home, can’t help but to think that silence has never felt quite so oppressive or devastatingly unsettling before. 

* * *

  _You’re still free now, right?_

Enjolras stares at the text for several moments, before getting annoyed with himself and setting his phone face down on the table. Thirty seconds later, he’s picks it up again. Grantaire hasn’t responded, so he rechecks his conversation with Jehan, just to make sure he has the details down. While reading back through the texts, his phone rumbles in his hand.

 _Yes_. _You’re still coming at 7?_

_Yes. You don’t mind if we go somewhere, do you?_

Enjolras raps his fingers on the table. He planned this as well as he could, as far away from Grantaire’s chemo as he could possibly make it so he’d have enough energy and willpower for a night out. Still, though, the whole night could be ruined if Grantaire doesn’t feel up to leaving his apartment. His phone rumbles again, and Enjolras looks down immediately.

_I suppose we could_

He grabs his keys, and is out the door.

 

“Where are we going?” Grantaire asks, sliding into the car. “Am I dressed properly?” Enjolras gives him a once over, and nods.

“You’re fine. And it’s a surprise.”

“Oh, a surprise?” Grantaire exclaims, putting a hand to his heart. “My dear Enjolras, I’m honored.”

“No need for mockery,” Enjolras scolds, though he knows his lips are turning up in a smile.

“Seriously though, where are we going?” Grantaire fiddles his seatbelt, moving it to turn and look at Enjolras easier.

“Seriously,” Enjolras says, making a left turn. “It’s a surprise."

 

“The zoo is closed.” Grantaire says, sounding numbly shocked from the passengers seat. He’s been silent since they pulled into the lot, and Enjolras isn’t sure how to take it.

“Trust me?” Enjolras asks, and gets out of the car. It takes him a moment, but Grantaire follows him. They walk towards the entrance, Enjolras being careful to match his gait with Grantaire’s slow one, and Enjolras takes out his phone, quickly texting Jehan.

“And now we’re standing at the closed gate.” Grantaire says. The shock seems to have subsided slightly, but he’s still looking at Enjolras with that small bit of wonder, and it’s making him distinctly uncomfortable.

“Just wait.”

It only takes Jehan two minutes to come from the inside and unlock the gate.

“Enjolras,” he greets, throwing his arms around Enjolras neck. “How are you?”

“Great,” he says, hugging back tightly. Jehan eases back, and Enjolras gestures to Grantaire.

“This is R, who I was telling you about.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you,” Jehan says, before reaching forward, and pulling Grantaire into a hug. From behind Jehan, Enjolras can see Grantaire’s surprised face, and he snuffles out a laugh.

“Nice to meet you,” Grantaire says, giving him an awkward pat on the back.

“Likewise!” Jehan smiles, and ushers them in. “Come on in.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you walk the entire zoo. We could have done that during open hours,” Enjolras whispers into Grantaire’s ear.

“Then what are we doing here?” Grantaire whispers back. Enjolras just smiles in response, and locks arms with Grantaire.

“Just follow Jehan,” he answers instead, pulling Grantaire along.

“Who is Jehan, again?”

“I’m a zookeeper!” Jehan exclaims from in front of them, turning to walk backwards. “Enjolras and I were in high school together and actually kept close in touch.”

“A zookeeper explains things a little,” Grantaire says. He looks confused, but not unhappy, so Enjolras is cautiously putting a checkmark in the “good” column.

“And Enjolras basically got me through high school history classes, so I still owe him many favors. Couldn’t say no when he asked for something so basic.”

“And what did he ask for?”

“Surprise,” Enjolras interrupts firmly. Jehan smirks a little, but turns back around, leading them into the heart of the zoo. He brings them into a large Employee Only building, which is obviously an animal exhibit. When Grantaire stops suddenly, lurching Enjolras backwards, he knows he’s caught sight of the giraffe.

“Oh my God,” is all he says, but in a tone that Enjolras can now confidently put a check mark in the “win” column.

“Ready to feed the giraffe?” Jehan asks. He’s grinning so wide that his eyes are like little slits, and Enjolras knows that he might have done it because Enjolras asked, but Jehan is really doing this for Grantaire, for the simple sake of providing something someone else wanted, just because he could, just because Grantaire deserves to be happy and to have good things. And God, does Enjolras love Jehan.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, swallowing down some emotion he doesn’t want them to see. “Let’s pet the giraffe.”

“Her name’s Molly,” Enjolras contributes, pulling Grantaire forward. “She’s sweet.”

“Here are some leaves.” Jehan hands over a few branches. “Put it on the palm of your hand, and reach up slightly. She’ll bend down to take them, and as she is, you can pet her nose or cheek. Don’t reach above her eyes, because you might scare her.”

Grantaire nods seriously, taking the branch.

“Wait!” Enjolras says, digging in his pocket. “I want pictures.”

Grantaire smiles a little helplessly at him, and waits for Enjolras to get ready. When he gets a nod, he reaches up, hand trembling slightly, and Molly reaches down, tongue wrapping around them.

“Holy shit, they have purple tongues,” Grantaire mumbles. Jehan laughs.

“Yes, they do.”

Grantaire hesitantly touches Molly’s nose, and pets her softly. He makes his way to her cheek, rubbing it slightly. She tosses her head, and moves back a foot.

“That was good, Grantaire,” Jehan says from behind him. “That was great. Giraffe’s can be easily scared, and she wasn’t frightened of you at all.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire asks, face breaking out in a wide smile.

“Yeah,” Jehan confirms, nodding. “Do you want to meet her baby?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, voice thick. “That’d be nice.”

“His name is Spot.” Grantaire barks out a laugh, making Jehan throw him a smile. “I named him, of course. I also named his dad.”

“Let me guess – splotch?”

“Montesquieu.” Grantaire stares for a moment, before breaking out in a full belly laugh.

Enjolras is glad he moved from photo to video.

 

They’re there until almost nine, when Jehan apologetically says that he has to finish with all the animals so he isn’t there until midnight.

“Thank you,” Grantaire says, unhesitatingly pulling Jehan into a rough hug. “This was incredible.”

“You’re welcome,” Jehan says warmly. “Please come visit again, even in daylight hours.”

“I want to,” Grantaire replies.

“Bye Jehan,” Enjolras says, walking forward to give him a quick hug. As he pulls him in, he whispers in his ear, far too quiet for Grantaire to hear, “Thank you so much for this.”

“No thanks necessary, my friend,” Jehan answers, and lets go.

The walk back to the car is silent, and Enjolras can sense that Grantaire is struggling with something. As he opens the car door, Grantaire voice stops him. He looks up, and sees him leaning against the front bumper, staring at Enjolras.

“I honestly don’t know what to say,” Grantaire says.

“You don’t have to say anything."

“Bullshit.”

“I told you at the start. My reward is seeing you happy. That hasn’t changed.”

Grantaire has to look away, and Enjolras takes the moment to slide inside the driver’s seat.

* * *

“R?” A voice says from behind Grantaire, making him startle. He twists to look behind him, and Enjolras can see about half of what seems to be a short man with a white cane.

“Joly?” Grantaire says, sounding surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m just having lunch, as you do,” Joly says, and does so with such a happy tone that Enjolras can’t help but send a questioning look over to Grantaire.

“Right. Joly, I’m here with my friend, Enjolras. Enjolras, this is Joly. He’s my best friend.”

“Oh.” The white cane surely clarifies a few things – notably, why Grantaire’s best friend wasn’t picking him up from the hospital. “Hello. As he said, I’m Enjolras. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

“Thanks!” Joly gives him a bright smile, and makes his way to the table with far more grace than Enjolras imagined he would. Grantaire guides him down into a seat, and Joly grabs his to-go bagged lunch, setting it on the table.

“So, Grantaire said he met you at an AA meeting?” Joly says, and it takes Enjolras a few moments to realize Joly is talking to him. Grantaire’s staring at Enjolras, eyes wide.

“Did he?”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry." Joly apologizes. "That’s not something I should bring up, is it?” 

“It’s fine, he’s interning at the building, writing for their website. Enjolras isn’t a member.”

“Oh, okay, great.” Joly breathes a sigh of relief. “I didn’t want to bring up something sensitive without knowing you.”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras says, and he’s so, so lost.

“AA sure keeps my Friday’s busy,” Grantaire says pointedly, and it takes Enjolras a second to put it all together.

“Right,” Enjolras gets out, teeth grinding together. “Every Friday for the past few months, right?”

“Yes.” Grantaire nods. “Yes.”

He’s looking at Enjolras very intently, and Enjolras can physically feel him pleading not to out him to Joly. Enjolras stares back, and hopes he’s communicating  ‘you will need to explain later’ with the sheer will of his eyes.

“So, Joly, tell me how you know Grantaire.”

 

As it turns out, Joly is completely lovely, and has Enjolras smiling more than he has in the past six months. He gives the man a short hug before he leaves, claiming that is lunch hour is over.

“And Grantaire,” Joly says, right before he walks out the door. “I miss you something fierce. I know going sober is hard, but please, call once in a while?”

“I promise,” Grantaire says, and salutes, though Joly can’t see it. He seems to sense it though, because he smiles, and walks out the door, a jingle bell ringing in his wake.

“Do you want another coffee?” Grantaire asks, pointedly evasive. Enjolras glares at him.

“I want you to explain.” Grantaire sighs, heavy and tired.

“Thanks for playing along.”

“You need to explain, Grantaire. You introduced him as your best friend, and he doesn’t know you’re getting chemo?”

“He doesn’t know I have cancer,” Grantaire admits. His hands tighten around his water. “No one knows.”

“Why not?” Enjolras asks, truly baffled.

“I can’t deal with it,” Grantaire says, looking down. “It’s enough to have to confront dying. I can’t deal with having to deal with my friends worrying about me constantly. I hate being looked after. I hate being pitied. I hate being a burden. If Joly knew, you know what would happen? He would cry. He would text me twice daily. He would bring me soup, and crackers, because that’s what you do when someone is sick to him, not matter what it is. He would spend all his free time with me. And I can’t do that to him.”

“What?” None of that made sense to him, not a word. “I don’t understand your thought processes. He would want to do that.”

“He would feel that he has to. And on some level, maybe he wants to, but him knowing would just make his life more complicated, and sadder. I can shield him from that, while simultaneously shielding myself from people’s comfort. It’s a win win.”

“You don’t want comfort?”

“It’s taking from someone else without giving anything in return,” Grantaire says quietly. “Just taking and taking and taking.”

“It’s something others want to give.”

“It’s not something I want to take, or know how to. It’s easier to lie, and to tell him I’m in AA, and tell Bossuet I lost a bet and had to shave my head, or tell Bahorel I’m trying to go sober and it’s making me ill a lot. It’s easier on everyone.”

“And if you died? What then?" Enjolras knows his voice is going a bit too sharp. "What will your friends feel like if you died of cancer, and they never knew you even had it? You’re really saying that that’s better? That they wouldn’t feel like shit for the rest of their lives for not being there for you?”

“It would be my choice, not their mistake-” Grantaire starts, but Enjolras interrupts.

“That’s not the way they’d see it; I guarantee you.”

“I’d like to think I’d tell them if I ever become terminal.” Grantaire shrugs. “I don’t know if I’ll get there. If not, then this can all be an unpleasant, distant memory. If I do, then I’ll tell them.”

“I will hold you to that. And for the record, I think you should tell them. Wouldn’t chemo have been easier if you had someone there that cares for you? Someone to hold your hand?”

“I have you,” Grantaire says offhandedly, and it makes Enjolras lose track of what he was going to say next.

“Yes,” he nods. “You do.”

* * *

“Grantaire, Enjolras,” Combeferre greets, walking in. “I have some news.”

“What’s up, Doc?” Grantaire asks in that cheesy Bugs Bunny voice, and Enjolras can’t help but to roll his eyes, elbowing him in the stomach. Grantaire turns and grins at him.

“Right,” Combeferre says, regaining attention. “Well, Grantaire, before you were in T1 stage of unresectable liver cancer.  We’ve been doing systemic chemotherapy to try to shrink the tumor enough so that partial hepatectomy surgery might be possible.”

“And?” Grantaire prompts. He’s fiddling with his hands again, and Enjolras grabs them to keep them still. Combeferre glances down at them, smiles slightly, and continues.

“Only a small number of people can be cured by this, Grantaire, I want you to know that off the bat.”

“I can get the surgery?”

“Yes,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras can feel Grantaire’s pulse spike from where his fingers are resting on his wrists. He grips his hands harder. “We’ve shrunk the tumor enough that we will at least try surgery.”

“Holy shit,” Grantaire says. He turns, shoving his face into Enjolras shoulder. Enjolras reaches one arm around, steadying him. “Enjolras. I might get cured yet.”

“I heard,” he says, his hand massaging his shoulder. “I’m so happy for you.”

Combeferre’s smiling at them, and Enjolras can’t help but to mouth a _thank you._

* * *

Grantaire signs the papers, and hands the clipboard off to the nurse. Enjolras grips his hands, not moving from his stiff stand at his bedside.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Lee,” a woman in scrubs says, walking up. “I’m going to administer your anesthesia.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras reaches forward to grip his hand at the shake in his voice.

“Now, relax. I’m going to inject the anesthesia in through your IV. It will be a few moments before you feel the effects.”

“You’re doing it now?” Enjolras’ grip tightens. “But wait, I’ve said anything to him yet.”

“Sir, we need to wheel him off to surgery immediately.”

“But I thought I had a couple more minutes. Never mind.” He shakes his head, and bends down, so he’s eye level with Grantaire. “Hey.”

“Hi,” he answers, somehow smiling.

“You’re going to be just fine, okay? I’m going to see you when you get out, and it’s going to be fine.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire nods, a little too fast to be in honest agreement. “Is that the anesthesia?” he asks Dr. Lee.

“Yes,” she replies. “It should be kicking in soon.”

“And it's enough to last me throughout the surgery?”

“Of course sir,” she says. “We do hundreds of surgeries; don't worry.”

“And you're sure it wasn’t too much? You’re sure I’m going to wake up after? I mean, I need to wake up after. You’re sure I’m going to wake—”

He’s starting to cry, and no matter how heavy the feeling is in his own chest, Enjolras cannot tolerate that.

“Hey, R, do you know what we’re going to do when you get out of surgery? We’re going to go to a football game. You’ve never been to one, right? We’re going to go.”

“You’ll hate football games,” Grantaire says, sniffling, and Enjolras reaches forward, and pulls him into the hardest hug he can as Grantaire is still attached to the IV.

“It’ll be great. We’ll buy a hot dog, and popcorn, and we’ll yell when the home team gets points. It’ll be amazing.”

“Okay,” Grantaire mumbles, and clutches on. “Okay.”

“I’m really sorry,” Dr. Lee says from behind Enjolras. “But we need to get Grantaire to the operating room.”

“Please, give us a moment,” Enjolras tries not to beg.

“I’m sorry,” is all she replies, and begins pushing his bed away, towards the OR. Enjolras holds his hand until he can’t, and then stands, and watches them cart him out of sight.

It’s a long, painful four hours of waiting.

 

“Combeferre.” Enjolras jumps up the moment he walks into the waiting room. “How is he?”

“You can’t see him now; you know that,” Combeferre starts with, maneuvering him to sit back down. “But he’s fine. The surgery went well.”

“Oh my God,” Enjolras breathes out, putting his head in between his legs. “Thank the Lord. No, thank his surgeons. Can you for me?”

“Sure,” Combeferre says, and swings an arm around his shoulders. Enjolras pushes into it, reveling in the feeling of Combeferre silently rubbing his arm.

“Are we ever going to explicitly talk about this?”

“Not when I’m emotionally destroyed by his surgery,” Enjolras says, not even bothering to pretend he doesn’t know what Combeferre is referencing.

“Okay, later then.”

“Later,” Enjolras agrees.

* * *

“Look who it is,” Grantaire greets. Enjolras is slightly surprised by how pale and tired Grantaire looks in his hospital bed, but tries not to let it show. He steps into the room fully.

“Hey, Grantaire,” he says, walking over to the chair next to his bedside table. “I heard it all went well.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire’s looking happy, and it makes Enjolras grin, despite the fact that he’s been an emotional wreck for several days.

“I didn’t want to just drop by, but I have to write an article for tomorrow. I’m a bit behind. So I brought my laptop, and thought I could work on it here, while you—” Enjolras pulls a tablet out of his laptop case. “Can play Zuma on my iPad.”

“That is a fucking amazing plan,” Grantaire says, reaching for the tablet.

Combeferre finds them two hours later, with Enjolras’ article 2/3 written, and Grantaire on level 27-3. 

* * *

 “This might be the last time you drive me home,” Grantaire comments 5 days later, as they are pulling into his apartment complex.

“From the hospital,” Enjolras adds.

* * *

 “Enjolras, where are you?” Grantaire asks. At the intensity of his voice, Enjolras stops in his tracks.

“In a department store. I’m buying a new shirt. Why?”

“They called me in for my results, the one’s that say if I still have cancer.” He’s silent for several moments, and Enjolras wishes he were there just so he could throttle him.

“And?” he demands. He’s clutching the shirt he was looking at so tightly in his hands that he knows he’s going to buy it out of guilt for the wrinkles.

“Little ol’ me is cancer free,” Grantaire says, laughing, bright and clear and happy.

“Really?”

“Really. It fucking worked, Enjolras. They said I was lucky. Me. I was lucky.”

Enjolras is feeling the strange dichotomous compulsions to cry and jump in the air.

“Where are you?” he asks, walking towards the exit, his stride slightly too fast.

“I went out for a walk. Because I fucking _can._ I’m at the park near my house.”

“I’m coming,” Enjolras says, and hangs up before Grantaire can argue.

 

Enjolras parks his car over the line, which he normally can’t stand other people doing, but he’s so filled with happy anxiousness he can’t bother to fix it. He throws his door open, and strides up to where he sees Grantaire walking the perimeter of the fence. When Grantaire looks up, and Enjolras catches sight of his face, he breaks into a run.

He barrels into Grantaire, catching him in a tight hug that almost throws him off balance.

“Woah there, hi,” Grantaire laughs, petting his hair.

“I’m so fucking happy right now,” Enjolras says into his neck. It makes Grantaire pull him a little closer, and shove his head into the crook of Enjolras’ neck.

“Amazingly enough, me too.”

Enjolras pulls away, and studies Grantaire’s face, which has a bit of color from the brisk day.

“I’m going to go buy you something from that fancy bakery down the street, and then I’m going to buy tickets to a football game, and then I’m going to spend the entire day with you. Is that acceptable?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire shakes his head with a dopey, happy smile. “I think I can agree to that.”

Enjolras threads their fingers together, and pulls him to the sidewalk. As they walk, he doesn’t pull his hand away. They’re only half way to the bakery when Grantaire stops, pulling Enjolras back slightly by his hand.

“What’s up?” Enjolras asks, looking back.

“I wasn’t going to do this today, because I didn’t want to ruin a great, great day. But I think it might actually make it better? And anyway, I can’t stand not knowing.”

“What’s up?” Enjolras repeats, worried.

“Do you have some sort of maybe kind of feelings for me? Like, unplatonically?”

“I’m sorry, could you put some more unsure words in there? I’m not sure I caught your meaning.”

“You’re a dick,” Grantaire laughs, scuffing his foot on the pavement. Enjolras watches him, taking in his dark coat, faded jeans, and ancient brown work boots. As Grantaire looks back up at Enjolras, somehow looking uncertain, Enjolras feels a wave of fondness ripple throughout him. He takes a step forward, right into Grantaire’s space, and grabs his hand. His eyes are bright, and clear in a way Enjolras hasn’t seen them often.

“Grantaire.” He starts, but doesn’t know how to finish. Instead, he pushes up on his toes, catching Grantaire’s mouth with his own, and reaching a hand up to cradle his neck. When he pulls away, Grantaire gives him a dopey smile, before letting his head fall onto Enjolras chest.

“Answer your question?”

Grantaire squeezes his hand in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have written this and played Zuma for like 6 hours instead of write an essay for university. Like, it's a possibility.
> 
> I also just realized how many hugs were in this. Like woah. So many hugs.
> 
> Kudo/comment if you'd like, it's always great encouragement. 
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://raeldaza.tumblr.com) if you so want.
> 
> *EDIT*  
> Now with a follow up chapter expanding on Joly and Grantaire's friends side of things, finishing up that subplot.


	2. Vignettes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had a couple requests to tie up the loose end of Joly's side of this story, so I did. These all take place within the previous story, and are just little vignette's to expand/clarify that unresolved subplot. Definitely make sure you've read that first. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“You should go to the doctor.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, and takes a long sip of water. “You say that about _everything._ ”

“Grantaire,” Joly chides seriously. “You’ve had a low appetite for weeks now, and you’re constantly having stomach pains.”

“I’m not sure it’s my stomach,” Grantaire tries to argue, but Joly flaps his hand at him, silencing him.

“It could be _serious._ Please, please, just go?”

Grantaire sighs, long and dramatic. “Fine. For you.”

* * *

GRANTAIRE

GRANTAIRE

GRANTAIRE

 

Joly grabs his phone from where it is yelling at him on the couch. “Hello?”

“Joly,” Grantaire answers, “Are you home?”

“Yep, I just started dinner. You just got out of your doctor’s appointment going over the test results, right? How did it go?”

“Could I come over?” Grantaire evades, and Joly’s stomach immediately drops.

“Of course,” he says instantly. 

 

Joly hangs out by the door, just so he can open it the moment he hears the knock.

“Get yourself in here,” he says, wrenching the door open. He can hear Grantaire’s heavy footsteps, and can vaguely hear him take off his coat, and probably lay it over the couch. Joly crosses his arms and tries not to tap his foot.

“So?” Joly starts, after a moment too long of silence. “What’s the matter?”

He hears Grantaire fall to the couch, heavily. “I should have just answered you on the phone. I’m sorry to freak you out,” he apologies.

Joly carefully makes his way to the couch, finding Grantaire’s shoulder so he can lower himself beside him. He grasps his hand. “It’s okay as long as you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Grantaire says, voice steady. “I just can never have alcohol again."

“Oh,” Joly says. There’s a quiet moment, and he can hear Grantaire take a deep breath. “What was the matter?”

“Borderline liver failure. If I stop now, I’ll probably be okay long term, but, you know. Fucking sucks.”

“Bars suck anyway,” Joly says, hoping his voice is flippant and not betraying his pounding heart. “They’re too loud and grimy. Smoothie bars are where it’s at.”

“Are you suggesting I replace alcohol with smoothies?”

“Piña colada with ice instead of the colada,” Joly says, and has no idea if that makes sense. Maybe not, with how Grantaire laughs, falling over on top of him, head pillowed on his lap. Joly runs a hand through his hair. “So you’re really going to be alright?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, and Joly can feel when he takes a deep, wavering breath. “I’m going to be just fine.”

It’s silent a few moments, until Joly hears a sniff. It's quiet, but a several moments later, he can feel his jeans dampen with tears. A hand on Grantaire’s back tells him it’s shaking slightly, and Joly – Joly does not understand.

“Grantaire?” he asks, confused. “What’s the matter?”

Grantaire silent for several minutes, long enough that Joly’s positive he’s not going to respond, so he just holds him best he can. Finally, he hears, “Nothing. I’m just really going to miss drinking.”

“It’s not the end of life as you know it,” Joly says, trying for soothing and probably missing it by several feet.

“Yeah,” Grantaire responds, his voice breaking. “Right.”

* * *

 “Shit, dude,” Bahorel curses, grabbing Grantaire’s arm and forcing him to sit down. “You don’t look good at all.”

Grantaire huffs. “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

“Seriously man,” Bahorel continues, refusing to be sidetracked. “Your skin’s kind of yellow. That can’t be normal.”

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s just my body reacting funny to the lack of alcohol.”

“You sure?” Bahorel asks doubtfully. “Have you told Joly? He did a couple years of nursing school, right? He would know.”

“An actual doctor would know better,” Grantaire says, not unkindly. “Which is who I went to.”

“But—”

“Bahorel,” Grantaire interrupts. “Drop it.”

He does.

* * *

Bossuet looks stunned, eyes blinking as if he just had and lost a staring contest with the sun. “Why would you do this?”

“Lost a bet with a friend,” Grantaire says, running a hand over his now bald head.

“What friend is that sadistic?”

“No one you know.” Grantaire scuffs his toes on the concrete. “Does it look that bad?”

Bossuet blinks, and then shakes his head, shaking himself from his surprise. “Well, I’ll miss the hair, like everyone else. But nah, not so bad, man. We’re hair twins now. We can be _bald buddies._ Oh my God, if I made that into a patch, would you sew it and wear it on a hat?” 

* * *

“You’re not eating much.” Grantaire looks up from his mostly-full plate of chicken marsala. “Is it not good?”

“No, it’s great as always. Sorry, I just,” Grantaire shrugs, and his entire body moves with the force of it. “I had a big lunch.”

Bahorel eyes his frame; once slim, it now looks willowy, like a good hard wind would flatten him. “You sure? You look like you weigh less than a teenager on crack.”

“Kind as always. Thank you, Bahorel.”

Bahorel lets out a breath. “I only say it because I care, you know that, man? I don’t want you disappearing on me.”

“Right,” Grantaire says, and it sounds like something is stuck in his throat. “I won’t. Don’t worry. Just don’t have much of an appetite with the, uh, you know, withdrawal.”

“You fell asleep last night during Star Wars,” Bahorel says, and Grantaire can tell he’s trying to keep his voice gentle, as impossible as that is for him. “I’ve never known you to do that. You’re okay, right?”

“Of course,” Grantaire confirms. “Don’t you trust me to tell you if something was really wrong?”

“Um,” Bahorel stalls. “Well.”

Grantaire shoots him a tired smile. “Don’t worry about me, Bahorel. What’s for dessert?”

“Your favorite!” Bahorel shouts, pushing himself away from the table hard enough that all the glasses rattle. “Caramel flan.”

He places it in front of Grantaire with a flourish, and settles across from his to watch him take a bite, and is not disappointed with the rare smile it makes Grantaire give.

“Good?” He prompts.

“So good,” Grantaire agrees, and takes another large spoonful. He swallows it down, and as he reaches for another, the spoon wavers in the air. Bahorel frowns, watching Grantaire put it down, hand shaking.

“Grantaire?”

His head is down, and Bahorel notes with alarm that his shoulders are starting to shake. “Oh Jesus fuck,” Bahorel says, and immediately runs to the other side of the table, kneeling by Grantaire. “What’s wrong?”

“It just makes me sad,” Grantaire says, voice muffled by his face in his hands.

“Why?” Bahorel prompts softly, and eases his hands away from his face. His cheeks are tear-streaked, his eyes glistening, and Bahorel now knows that a friend can also break your heart.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire stutters out, before hitching out a sob. “I don’t know. It makes me sad because I’ve never eaten such a good pudding before. It tastes really good.”

“I don’t understand,” Bahorel whispers, feeling wholly inadequate.

“Me either,” Grantaire says, little sobs choking his voice. “It just makes me sad.”

* * *

“Hey,” Joly says, the relief in his voice palpable, and Grantaire feels a new wave of guilt crash over him. “Nice to see you.”

“Are you free?” Grantaire asks, stepping into the apartment.

Joly closes the door behind him, smiling wildly. “For you, darling, always.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire says, and Joly can hear the smile in his voice.

“Come, come, sit. Let’s catch up.”

“We saw each other a week ago,” Grantaire laughs. “Not that much could have happened.”

“Right, yes, about that. I wanted to ask – Enjolras wasn’t offended that I assumed he was a recovering alcoholic, right?”

“No, not at all,” Grantaire assures him. “He would never carry a grudge over something as dumb as that.”

Joly’s smile turns a little wicked. “Right, about _that._ How long has this _thing_ been going on between you two, and why didn’t you tell me?” He swings his cane, hitting Grantaire across the shins, making him yell out a little, “hey!”

“What _thing?_ ” Grantaire says, and pulls his feet up onto the couch.

“Your tryst.”

“Our _what?”_

“Your _affair,_ your _love connection,_ your _entanglement—_ ”

“None of those words are happening,” Grantaire interrupts, voice a little manic. “He gives me rides home.”

“Because you’re _so_ incapable of driving yourself, right. It’s not like you have a license or a car or anything.”

Grantaire’s silent a moment, which Joly takes personally as a victory. “So maybe I enjoy his company. I never denied that.”

“Grantaire, sweetheart, you forget how long I’ve known you. I know what it sounds like when you’re talking with your friends, versus you flirting, versus someone you’re interested in seriously.”

“You do?” Grantaire asks doubtfully.

Joly snorts. “Of course. When you flirt, your voice jumps an octave. When you're with close friends, you get _really_ loud. But when you _like_ someone? You get all quiet and mumbly and sweet—”

“And that’s enough, Joly.”

“You’re not denying it,” Joly sing-songs, and God, had he really missed his best friend these last few months.

“Maybe not,” Grantaire agrees after a moment. “But it’s entirely one sided.”

Joly blinks.

“What?” Grantaire questions defensively.

“Well, I couldn’t see how he was looking at you, of course. But by his voice - I mean, I could have _sworn_ that you two were a thing.”

“What?” Grantaire asks, too loud. “Why would you say that?”

“He just sounded like a man in love. Voices change, Grantaire, depending on who people talk to, and he didn’t talk to me or the waitress or anyone else in the same tone he did you. It was all gentle and doting and amicable with you.”

“Amicable,” Grantiare mutters to himself. "Sure."

“You sure it’s one sided?”

Grantaire’s silent a moment, before he lets out a quiet, “huh,” and Joly just pats him on the knee.

* * *

“I’m fucking sick of you moping,” Bahorel says, banging open the door to Grantaire’s room, making him jump.

“What?” Grantaire says, eyes wide.

“Moping!” Bahorel booms, and grabs the back of Grantaire’s chair, turning him around to face him in the eyes. “So you’ve stopped drinking. Who gives a shit? Well, I mean, other than your liver, but come on. Millions of people don’t drink every day. You never leave the apartment anymore. You’re always just sitting around. You’re acting like it’s the end of the world.”

Grantaire stares at him a moment, before letting out a loud peal of laughter. “Okay, then, what do you want to do?”

“Your clothes fucking suck,” Bahorel says. “I saw this _debonair_ waistcoat yesterday, R, it’s James Bond worthy. Let’s go buy it for you.”

“To wear with what, and to what? What the fuck am I going to do with a _waistcoat?_ ”

“We’ll wear it to the movies and see _James Bond_ for all I care.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “I can’t afford a waistcoat, Bahorel.”

“If it gets you out of here, I’ll pay for it.”

Grantaire sighs. “Okay, fine. One condition.”

“Yeah?”

“No rough housing today. I don’t feel great.”

Bahorel eyes his lank frame, sunken eyes, yellow-tinted skin, and shorn hair. “Really, mate? You look great. Let’s get a-going.”

* * *

“Hey Joly.”

Joly frowns. “Hey. Are you okay? Your voice sounds like you just finished a screamo concert.”

“You believe in God, right?” Grantaire evades. Joly frowns harder, though he knows Grantaire can’t tell through the phone.

“Yes, you know that. You also never want to talk about that. Is everything okay?”

“You said once that one of the goals you have is to never want anything. I remember your little prayer list, ‘I shall not want control,’ ‘I shall not want worldly passions,’ ‘I shall not want to be accepted,’ etc.”

“Grantaire, are okay?”

“I remember you praying that one day after your mom died. ‘Deliver me, oh God, from the fear of death or trial.’ Do you remember that?”

“R?”

“I remember that. I didn’t understand that. Does God not want you to want things? Does God not want you to fear death? If God is providing you with a literal heaven, if you God is ‘preparing a place for you,’ and if it is perfect and holy, why don’t believers kill themselves? Why do you keep going? If it’s perfect, and if you shouldn’t fear death – does that mean you should want death?”

“R, I am calling the police,” Joly says, and he has never hated his condition before, refused to be bitter over it, but he viscerally, truly despises and curses his eyes, preventing him from running to Grantaire this second. “Don’t do anything when I hang up – please, please, please.”

“I won’t Joly, you don’t get it.” Grantaire makes a sniffling sound, and when he begins again, his voice is much less rushed. “For once, I don’t want to die. Is that selfish?”

“No,” Joly says with as much feeling as possibly can put into one syllable. “It’s not.”

“Am I allowed to want my life in the eyes of God?”

“Yeah,” Joly says, voice breaking. He wipes a hand across his eyes. “Yeah. If there’s anything you are allowed, it’s that.”

“Oh.”

“What does it matter to you, anyway? You don’t believe in God.”

Grantaire shudders out a laugh. “Figured I better cover all my bases.”

"Why?" Joly asks, and Grantaire doesn't respond. “Are you okay?”

Grantaire lets out some air. “I think so.”

They sit in a companionable silence for a minute, just listening to each other’s breath across the phone.

“Well,” Grantaire breaks, “I should go. Enjolras will be here any minute.”

“Hey, R?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell him what’s wrong. Confide in somebody, if I’m not right.”

“You’re right for a lot of things,” Grantaire says, and then hesitates.

“I don’t need to be right for _everything_ ,” Joly finishes. “Just talk to him, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Bye R.”

“Bye, Joly.”

* * *

“Oh Joly, please, please don’t cry.”

Joly hiccups into Grantaire’s chest. “How could I not cry?”

“I don’t know, but please don’t.” Grantaire’s running a hand through his hair, and now all Joly can think about is what those hands have been through – what his whole body had been through, and he had never even _known,_ he had just been going throughout his days blissfully unaware that one of his closest friends was suffering, was literally dying, and he hadn’t _caught on,_ he was a _monster –_

“I hate myself,” Joly mumbles.

“Oh fucking God, please don’t,” Grantaire says, holding him tighter. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“I’ve been so happy lately, and you could literally be _dead_ any moment, what the fuck is wrong with me—”

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” Grantaire says, and Joly sits back.

He finds Grantaire’s face with his hands, and gives him a hard cuff on the back of the head. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Joly asks, and he can feel his eyes well with tears again. “Are we not friends? Did you not trust me? Did you not want me to be with you during this?”

Grantaire puts his face in his hands. “Of course we're friends. I just didn’t want you to worry about me.”

“I fucking want to worry about you, you asshole,” Joly yells, voice wavering. “I care about you. Worrying is what you _do_ when you love someone.”

“You said that you have been having a good year. I didn’t want to ruin that with my bullshit.”

“Dying isn’t _bullshit,_ Grantaire,” Joly yells, near hysterical, and he desperately wants to shake him. He’s not one to deny himself, so he finds Grantaire’s shoulders, and does just that.

“It is so! It’s just shit, all the time. I feel like _shit, all the time._ There’s nothing you could have done to stop that. I didn’t tell you – and you had seven months of _peace,_ not worrying about me, having a good time. If I told you from the start, you would have been constantly worried, and upset, and _I_ would have caused that, Joly, _me,_ I would have been the cause of your unhappiness, and there’s nothing you could have done to help me, and tell me, what would that do? How would you knowing have helped you?”

Joly’s chest is so heavy he’s starting to worry about his own health. “It’s not about helping _me,_ Grantaire, you fucking moron. It’s about helping _you._ ”

“I don’t need to be helped.”

“You’re allowed to _need things!”_ Joly feels desperate, like he’s trying to hit someone in the face with a baseball bat, and it should be easy, but he can’t see where they are, and they keep side-stepping him, always just a hair out of reach, when it should be the easiest thing in the world. “It’s not a failure to want your friends when you’re going through a rough time. It’s not losing to ask to be held, or want to talk, or to be with people you care about when you’re upset. It’s human.” He wipes away tears on his sleeve, and he’s sure he looks like a mess. “You’re a human, R, it’s not a shame to act like it.”

“I don’t know how to.” Grantaire stops, and lets out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how accept kindness like that. I don’t know how to respond.”

“To friendship?” Joly asks, and Grantaire shrugs hard enough that Joly can sense it. “Does my friendship mean nothing to you?”

Grantaire’s head snaps up. “Your friendship means _everything_ to me. Friends are what keeps me human.”

“Then why are you acting like I’m not necessary?”

“It’s not _you_ that’s unnecessary. It’s _me._ Without you in the world, all the light would go out. Without me, it’d just be a lot quieter and less sarcastic.”

“R,” Joly says seriously, placing his head back on his chest. “There isn’t a single other person in the world I would trade for you. Don’t talk that way about my best friend.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says quietly, into Joly’s hair. “Okay.”

It’s quiet for several minutes, until both their breathing calms.

“Did I tell you about how I accidentally made biscuits the other day?” Joly asks, voice a little muffled.

“No,” Grantaire answers.

“Okay, let me.”

They both know it’s a distraction, but the knowledge didn’t make it unwelcome.

* * *

“Bahorel.”

“Yo dude,” Bahorel yells over the noise of the bar. “Not the best time.”

“I need to talk to you.” Bahorel frowns at the serious tone, and tells Grantaire to wait a second, giving a finger to the bartender and slowly making his way through the crowd, outside. It’s a warm night, but it still feels blessedly cool after the heat-crunched crowd on the dance floor. “Alright, man, what’s up?”

“Are you alone?”

“Yep.”

“Are you sitting down?”

“I can sit down on the concrete, if you want. What’s wrong?”

Bahorel doesn’t call himself overly emotionally adept – he’s not fantastic at subtleties in tones or demeanors, but even he can tell this seems wildly out of character.

“You're out, okay. Can you just call me when you get home?”

“I’m going home now.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“R,” Bahorel says seriously. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

 

It’s a long fifteen-minute drive.

 

“Okay,” Bahorel says the moment he redials and gets Grantaire. “I’m home, I’m sitting on my fucking couch, I even took my shoes off. What’s up?”

Grantaire clears his throat. “There’s something I need to tell you. And you’re going to be pissed, and you’re going to be angry, and if you don’t want to talk to me anymore, I get it. Or if you’re, I don’t know—”

“R,” Bahorel says, clutching the phone so hard his fingers go white. “Speak.”

“Right, right,” Grantaire mutters. He clears his throat again. “I’m having surgery tomorrow. And I felt that you needed to know in case something went wrong, so you wouldn’t get, get, get like a call, and have no idea what’s going on.”

Bahorel stands, and starts pacing. “Surgery? What for?”

“My liver.”

“Your what? Why are they messing with your liver?”

“That’s usually what they do when you have cancer in it.”

Bahorel stops in his tracks, which happens to be directly to the side of his pine bookshelf that he made not two months ago. “Come again?” he says, voice thick.

“Don’t make me say it again. Never thought I’d get it out a first time.”

“How long?” Bahorel asks, and he’s quite sure the deathly calm he’s feeling is just waiting for panic or anger to dominate.

“I don’t know. Like seven months in total.”

The hand not holding the phone curls into a fist, and it’s flying forward without his permission, slamming into the bookshelf so hard he can hear something break, and the wood splinters underneath his flesh, causing the entire shelf that portion was holding up to fall to the ground along with every law book he hasn’t opened in over two years.

Anger, then.

“R,” Bahorel starts, and Grantaire interrupts immediately.

“I’ve been reliably informed that you have a right to be angry, but I have a request.”

“Which is?”

“Can you wait until tomorrow night, please? Just – um, I. Not tonight. Don’t be angry with me tonight. Just in case something does go wrong, and I don’t wake up. Not tonight.”

Bahorel’s quiet a moment, and he stretches his hand, idly cataloguing that he might have fractured it. “I’ll bring you soup,” he says eventually. “I was going to make a pot of chicken noodle anyway.”

He wasn’t.

“Joly’s here too.”

“Two batches then,” he says, and hangs up. 

* * *

“I’m going to head out,” Bahorel said, and leaves a heavy hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “You said the surgery is at noon?”

Grantaire nods.

“Okay. I’ll take a half day, and I can be there when you get out.”

“I might not be allowed visitors.”

“That’s fine – I’ll still be updated on what happened.”

“I may have died.”

“And then I’ll have a place to lose my shit where no one will judge me,” Bahorel says, and manages to keep his voice even. “And if that’s the case – death will be proud to take you, you understand me?”

Grantaire’s eyes tear up slightly, because he can’t fucking help it, but he manages to nod. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Bahorel takes a step forward, and pulls him into a large, hard hug, that lasts far beyond the normal realm of acceptability. When he steps back, his eyes are glistening. He manages out a gruff, “see you,” before he makes his way from the apartment.

Grantaire sits back down next to Joly, just in time for his phone to beep.

“Is it Enjolras?” Joly asks.

“How the fuck did you know that?”

“It’s the day before your surgery,” Joly says gently. “From what you’ve told me, few would be more invested than him.”

“He should be asleep,” Grantaire grumbled, but Joly can hear him type out a response.

“Is he upset he’s not with you tonight?” Joly asks.

“Maybe, but he’s been bothering me to tell you and everyone for ages. He was fucking thrilled when I texted him that I was telling you, and you’d probably spend the night with me. I think he gets that, while he’s important, you know, you’re important too.”

“Thanks,” Joly says softly, and then, after a moment. “So, are you going to do something about you and him?”

“Not until I get my results,” Grantaire says, not even bothering to try to misunderstand the question. “It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

“True,” Joly admits. He pauses. “It’s nice to see you in love.”

“I can’t tell if it’s nice to be in love,” Grantaire laughs, a little somberly.

Joly smiles, a little brokenly. “College-Grantaire _loved_ being in love. Sometimes, I thought you loved the feeling more than the person.”

“I may have,” Grantaire concedes. “But, you know, if there’s anything facing death has taught me, it’s that if there’s anything in this world I want more than love – it’s my life.”

“That’s a nice realization for you,” Joly says softly, leaning up against him.

“Yeah.” Grantaire goes silent a moment, before leaning his head back against the couch. “Hey, can I ask you for a pointless favor?”

“Sure.”

“Could you pray for me? Like, I still don’t think it will do anything, and I still think it’s pointless, but you praying to a God you think is listening _has_ to do more good than me picking a God—”

“Of course,” Joly interrupts. “You don’t have to explain it away. Of course.”

“I feel stupid,” Grantaire says softly. “Like I’m clutching at the air for answers.”

“The wind knocked me into Bossuet the day we met. Sometimes the breeze holds answers.”

Grantaire smiles at nothing.

* * *

“So?” Bossuet said, fingers tapping against the bed frame. Joly puts a hand over them, holding them still, while Bahorel kicks him in the leg. “It’s all cool?”

“Don’t know yet,” Grantaire said, and sends them all a very tired smile. “But I’ll let ya’ll know.”

Combeferre walks in, holding a clipboard, and gives the three apologetic smiles. “I’m sorry, but for the good of my patient, I’m going to have to kick you all out so he can rest properly.”

Grantaire graps for Combeferre’s hand. “Did you tell Enjolras?”

Combeferre smiles. “Yes, and he’s waiting outside. I’ll let him in after you’re asleep. You can catch up tomorrow – you need your rest.”

“Oh, this is hot doctor friend of your hot friend you’re in love with,” Bahorel says, as eloquently and tactfully as usual.

“Yes,” Grantaire says, and it’s amazing the amount of disdain he can put into one syllable.

“You still haven’t told us how you two really met,” Joly chastises. “I want to hear about it.”

“It’s kind of a long story,” Grantaire says, and coughs twice. “I’ll tell it to you someday.”

“Will you?” Bahorel asks, and Grantaire can feel Joly’s empty gaze and Bossuet’s hard one as well.

“Yeah,” he answers. “I will.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked the little add ons.
> 
> Anyway, kudo/comment if you'd like, it's always great encouragement. 
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://raeldaza.tumblr.com) if you so want.


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